Last week, I had the new experience of going to court. The not-quite-yet-ex-husband and I had attempted to go to court last month, but they didn't like the way we'd worded things in our separation agreement and sent us away without seeing the judge.
The only good thing about that hiccup was that now I knew exactly where to park, what building to go to, and what courtroom to enter. I also knew I had to get there earlier, because you have to show up BEFORE 9:00 and check in with the clerk. Things went much more smoothly this time around, and I was much more relaxed.
So the judge calls us and the bailiff tells us to stand at these little tables and they have chairs so I'm not sure if I should sit down or not? But we get sworn in and that doesn't seem like an appropriate point to sit, and then the judge is addressing us, so I feel weird sitting, and now it's been too long so I feel weird sitting, so I'm just standing there, trying not to look too awkward. The judge clarifies some more verbiage in the agreement, then she's like, "So you're pregnant."
"Yes."
"And is this gentleman the father?"
"No."
Basically, I'm Hester Prynne, except instead of a scarlet A, I have this giant belly.
Anyhow, unbeknownst to everyone involved, the husband gets default paternity of any kid you pop out while still married. Because of this, once Tater Tot is born, I have to gather all the gentlemen in my life together and fill out three different forms just to assign it to its biological father.
At the end of the day (really, 9:30), the judge granted the divorce and it's official in 4 months.
It was one of those days that I felt like I was starring in a cautionary drama entitled How Not to Live Your Life. Hey, kids! Let's learn about all the ways you can complicate your life by making bad choices!
I've come to terms with the fact that I make (a lot of) (sometimes very big) mistakes, and as I keep moving forward in life there will be more mistakes, and there's no point in dwelling on them beyond seeing what didn't work so I know what to do differently in the future. Until my son invents the time machine, I can't go back and change the past.
And yet - I still feel like a pariah for some reason. So maybe I haven't really come to terms with my mistakes. I guess I'm at some middle ground where I've accepted things for what they are, but it's quite another thing to have your missteps publicly broadcast; the first thing someone sees about you. Like a great big scarlet A.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Friday, May 18, 2018
Well, hello there.
I've been thinking of ways to break the news for a month now. I even wrote a lengthy blog post about embracing change and dealing with the unexpected. But it's not right for the situation.
I'm pregnant.
I'm unmistakably, undeniably, visibly pregnant.
It's jarring.
I keep looking for the right way to frame this but ultimately - it's just a fact.
I'm 36, I have three kids, and a fourth one is growing inside me.
Sometime before December, it's going to emerge into the world, one way or another, and I am going to have 4 children.
Three planned; one that just decided to pop in from nowhere. BAM!
I've envisioned a lot of different futures for myself. None of them ever included an unplanned pregnancy. Sure, when I was a kid, I wanted to marry a Russian gymnast and pop out ten kids, but those ten kids were all going to be planned. Then I had one kid and realized how much work and sacrifice they are and realized two or three would suffice.
But - not to worry. Because whatever maternal instincts or hormones I have, they've already kicked in. I already love this peach-sized, alien-looking being whose heartbeat I heard the other day. I'm worrying constantly about its health, just like I did with my first three kids. And I'm looking forward to meeting it, hopefully in November.
Four kids. Good thing I got that minivan.
Life is just full of surprises, isn't it?
I'm pregnant.
I'm unmistakably, undeniably, visibly pregnant.
It's jarring.
I keep looking for the right way to frame this but ultimately - it's just a fact.
I'm 36, I have three kids, and a fourth one is growing inside me.
Sometime before December, it's going to emerge into the world, one way or another, and I am going to have 4 children.
Three planned; one that just decided to pop in from nowhere. BAM!
I've envisioned a lot of different futures for myself. None of them ever included an unplanned pregnancy. Sure, when I was a kid, I wanted to marry a Russian gymnast and pop out ten kids, but those ten kids were all going to be planned. Then I had one kid and realized how much work and sacrifice they are and realized two or three would suffice.
But - not to worry. Because whatever maternal instincts or hormones I have, they've already kicked in. I already love this peach-sized, alien-looking being whose heartbeat I heard the other day. I'm worrying constantly about its health, just like I did with my first three kids. And I'm looking forward to meeting it, hopefully in November.
Four kids. Good thing I got that minivan.
Life is just full of surprises, isn't it?
Monday, November 6, 2017
Closing Doors
I thought about starting a new blog but there really is nothing new in what I have to say, so I'm coming back to this one.
I've been closing doors the last couple weeks.
As of October 1st, the husband and I officially separated, divorce to come, and I had to start referring to him as the ex-husband. ....Because I guess that's what you do? I can't exactly call him the husband, and the soon-to-be-ex-husband is too long... But I don't want to get into the nomenclature angle today. Today I want to talk about a different door.
When the then-husband and I decided we were through, we broached the subject at dinner one night to discuss with the children. T's 9 and E's 7, and it seemed like a good idea to handle this with a sort of Q & A. T, after all, is a self-proclaimed expert on divorce, having read about it in numerous books and having friends with divorced parents. The Q's were far from what we expected, however.
E: "How am I going to decide who to live with?"
A: Sorry, kid. You don't get to pick. That's already been decided. You're going to go live with the bears in the woods.
T: "When are you going to smash all the pictures?"
A: I'm not sure about the books you're reading but... there will be no smashing of pictures. No one is angry.
E did ask the million-dollar question. "If you still care about each other, why are you getting divorced?"
But let's back up to this picture-smashing business.
It's been a little over a month. I'm looking at the shelf of pictures, which has two pictures of the ex-husband and I on top, along with our fancy champagne flutes from our wedding just over 11 years ago. The larger picture, taken just after our wedding ceremony. A reminder of opening this door, starting on this journey, a journey that's now over. The smaller picture, taken on our trip to Vegas, celebrating 10 years together. And I'm thinking, staring up at these photographs. Should I smash them?
It's so ridiculously dramatic. So over-the-top. But what purpose does saving them serve? Yes, we had good times on that journey. There was a lot of laughter. There were adventures. Achievements. Shared success. And I don't want to erase the past; it's a part of who I am. So many wonderful things came out of our marriage. Including three amazing human beings.
If I'm not going to save them, maybe I should smash them. Just - close that door once and for all. Not put it away in a box to potentially be rediscovered. But smash it to pieces so it can't be put back together again.
Is that why people smash pictures?
I don't know, but I have to symbolically close that door somehow, so I get the box of leftover wedding matches and decide to burn them. In my mind, this causes a large fireball that shoots up toward the sky and frightens the neighbors. Even more dramatic than smashing photographs!
But no, matches don't burn well en masse. They are frustratingly difficult to burn, in fact, and you have to be really mad or really upset to want to sit there and strike hundreds of matches one at a time.
I did burn all the matches, because when I'm determined to finish something, I will. I added newspaper and twigs and some branches and I burned all those leftover matches from that September day in 2006 when this journey started.
And now it's over. That's how I closed the door this weekend.
"When are you going to smash all the pictures?"
I'm not, T. They're important, even if they no longer belong on the shelf.
Now as to Ethan's question... the answer to that's more than can fit into any blog post.
I've been closing doors the last couple weeks.
As of October 1st, the husband and I officially separated, divorce to come, and I had to start referring to him as the ex-husband. ....Because I guess that's what you do? I can't exactly call him the husband, and the soon-to-be-ex-husband is too long... But I don't want to get into the nomenclature angle today. Today I want to talk about a different door.
When the then-husband and I decided we were through, we broached the subject at dinner one night to discuss with the children. T's 9 and E's 7, and it seemed like a good idea to handle this with a sort of Q & A. T, after all, is a self-proclaimed expert on divorce, having read about it in numerous books and having friends with divorced parents. The Q's were far from what we expected, however.
E: "How am I going to decide who to live with?"
A: Sorry, kid. You don't get to pick. That's already been decided. You're going to go live with the bears in the woods.
T: "When are you going to smash all the pictures?"
A: I'm not sure about the books you're reading but... there will be no smashing of pictures. No one is angry.
E did ask the million-dollar question. "If you still care about each other, why are you getting divorced?"
But let's back up to this picture-smashing business.
It's been a little over a month. I'm looking at the shelf of pictures, which has two pictures of the ex-husband and I on top, along with our fancy champagne flutes from our wedding just over 11 years ago. The larger picture, taken just after our wedding ceremony. A reminder of opening this door, starting on this journey, a journey that's now over. The smaller picture, taken on our trip to Vegas, celebrating 10 years together. And I'm thinking, staring up at these photographs. Should I smash them?
It's so ridiculously dramatic. So over-the-top. But what purpose does saving them serve? Yes, we had good times on that journey. There was a lot of laughter. There were adventures. Achievements. Shared success. And I don't want to erase the past; it's a part of who I am. So many wonderful things came out of our marriage. Including three amazing human beings.
If I'm not going to save them, maybe I should smash them. Just - close that door once and for all. Not put it away in a box to potentially be rediscovered. But smash it to pieces so it can't be put back together again.
Is that why people smash pictures?
I don't know, but I have to symbolically close that door somehow, so I get the box of leftover wedding matches and decide to burn them. In my mind, this causes a large fireball that shoots up toward the sky and frightens the neighbors. Even more dramatic than smashing photographs!
But no, matches don't burn well en masse. They are frustratingly difficult to burn, in fact, and you have to be really mad or really upset to want to sit there and strike hundreds of matches one at a time.
I did burn all the matches, because when I'm determined to finish something, I will. I added newspaper and twigs and some branches and I burned all those leftover matches from that September day in 2006 when this journey started.
And now it's over. That's how I closed the door this weekend.
"When are you going to smash all the pictures?"
I'm not, T. They're important, even if they no longer belong on the shelf.
Now as to Ethan's question... the answer to that's more than can fit into any blog post.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Rule of three
Are you familiar with the Rule of Three? Basically, bad things come in sets of three. For example, one year we had three people in our family lose their jobs.
We bought a television a couple years ago. It was a decent television, although not one of the major brands you would immediately think of. We cobbled together some funds for it through Amazon gift cards so that we could see the score during sports games again. Within the first couple months, the back started growing what looked like a plastic mold. The husband researched it, and it turns out that sometimes the fire retardant leaks out of the plastic and forms crystals when it meets the air. The husband stated, "It's probably not good for you," but we left it at that. Since getting pregnant, I'd been avoiding cleaning around the TV so I wouldn't disrupt the "crystals," which also fall off the TV occasionally and created a nice layer of dandruffy-looking dust on the console.
Well, the day I come home from the hospital, the husband took it upon himself to clean around the TV. I complained - "I've been avoiding touching that stuff for 9 months, and the day I bring the baby home and sit next to it, you stir it all up?" So the husband re-researched it and was horrified. He suddenly insisted that the television be evicted immediately. He treated it with more disdain and caution than our asbestos floor tiles, to put it in perspective. He wrapped it in saran wrap while we were outside of the house and quarantined it in the basement under wraps until he could decide what to do with it.
So we had to buy a new television. Even though ours worked perfectly fine.
A few days later, the husband attempted to mow the lawn. But the lawnmower will not run for more than a minute. It is probably the battery, but a new battery is 2/3 the price of a whole new lawnmower.
So we have to buy a new lawnmower. Even though ours MIGHT work perfectly fine.
The next day, I got in my car to see if I was recovered enough from my Mr. Smee Section to drive the kids to school. My car would not start. The battery was completely dead. It would appear it does not like to sit idle for two weeks, the fickle machine. So the husband attempted to jump the battery. He had not yet succeeded when our awesome neighbor gave him a jump with one of those battery pack jumper thingies (real name). Husband then attempted to drive around town to recharge the battery but stalled the vehicle because he is not an experienced stick shift driver.
Now the vehicle would not start again. The husband called me and told me we need a new car. I called AAA. They could not find the husband or the car - probably because we told them the wrong town. I called AAA with the correct address. They told me they'd be there in the next three hours. The husband walked home and we all got in our other car - me, Baby Z, a very sleepy E, and T. He drove to the "bad" car and spent almost half an hour trying to jump it. Hallelujah, it worked.
So for now... we don't have to buy a new car. Since ours works mostly fine. If you drive it often.
Knock on wood.
We bought a television a couple years ago. It was a decent television, although not one of the major brands you would immediately think of. We cobbled together some funds for it through Amazon gift cards so that we could see the score during sports games again. Within the first couple months, the back started growing what looked like a plastic mold. The husband researched it, and it turns out that sometimes the fire retardant leaks out of the plastic and forms crystals when it meets the air. The husband stated, "It's probably not good for you," but we left it at that. Since getting pregnant, I'd been avoiding cleaning around the TV so I wouldn't disrupt the "crystals," which also fall off the TV occasionally and created a nice layer of dandruffy-looking dust on the console.
Well, the day I come home from the hospital, the husband took it upon himself to clean around the TV. I complained - "I've been avoiding touching that stuff for 9 months, and the day I bring the baby home and sit next to it, you stir it all up?" So the husband re-researched it and was horrified. He suddenly insisted that the television be evicted immediately. He treated it with more disdain and caution than our asbestos floor tiles, to put it in perspective. He wrapped it in saran wrap while we were outside of the house and quarantined it in the basement under wraps until he could decide what to do with it.
So we had to buy a new television. Even though ours worked perfectly fine.
A few days later, the husband attempted to mow the lawn. But the lawnmower will not run for more than a minute. It is probably the battery, but a new battery is 2/3 the price of a whole new lawnmower.
So we have to buy a new lawnmower. Even though ours MIGHT work perfectly fine.
The next day, I got in my car to see if I was recovered enough from my Mr. Smee Section to drive the kids to school. My car would not start. The battery was completely dead. It would appear it does not like to sit idle for two weeks, the fickle machine. So the husband attempted to jump the battery. He had not yet succeeded when our awesome neighbor gave him a jump with one of those battery pack jumper thingies (real name). Husband then attempted to drive around town to recharge the battery but stalled the vehicle because he is not an experienced stick shift driver.
Now the vehicle would not start again. The husband called me and told me we need a new car. I called AAA. They could not find the husband or the car - probably because we told them the wrong town. I called AAA with the correct address. They told me they'd be there in the next three hours. The husband walked home and we all got in our other car - me, Baby Z, a very sleepy E, and T. He drove to the "bad" car and spent almost half an hour trying to jump it. Hallelujah, it worked.
So for now... we don't have to buy a new car. Since ours works mostly fine. If you drive it often.
Knock on wood.
Monday, May 11, 2015
My archenemies returned
The ants are back in my kitchen. Just like always, it started with one on Friday. Then there were a couple on Saturday. And three more Sunday. And today they're coming in droves - I've already killed about ten.
I don't mess around with ants. I called the Ant Man. (I'm myrmecophobic) This will be his third visit to our house in four years. The first visit, he determined we had a satellite nest actually in our house. The next year we found its remnants under our side stairs. The second visit, last year, he thought we might have a nest starting in the attic. No idea what their deal is this year; they seem to be coming in from about the kitchen window. I will let Ant Man be the judge. Typically after his visits, they immediately stop entering the house.
Tomorrow he'll do his inspection. I don't know how I'll manage until he can do the treatment. Disgusting six-legged freaks. Until they are gone I live with a constant uneasy feeling, waiting for them to creep or dash suddenly out of nowhere. *shudder*
I don't mess around with ants. I called the Ant Man. (I'm myrmecophobic) This will be his third visit to our house in four years. The first visit, he determined we had a satellite nest actually in our house. The next year we found its remnants under our side stairs. The second visit, last year, he thought we might have a nest starting in the attic. No idea what their deal is this year; they seem to be coming in from about the kitchen window. I will let Ant Man be the judge. Typically after his visits, they immediately stop entering the house.
Tomorrow he'll do his inspection. I don't know how I'll manage until he can do the treatment. Disgusting six-legged freaks. Until they are gone I live with a constant uneasy feeling, waiting for them to creep or dash suddenly out of nowhere. *shudder*
Friday, May 8, 2015
Life with baby
Baby Z and I have now been home for a week together, getting used to things and recovering from last week's escapades. This is a lot less exciting than it sounds (in case you didn't gather from the previous post). While adorable and cuddly, newborns are not the greatest companions. I downloaded an app to track feedings, diapers, etc. and here is what an average day looks like:
... that takes us into the afternoon, anyhow. You get the picture. I just use the app so when the husband comes home I pull it out and say, "Look what we did today!"
Meanwhile, since I'm recovering from what my children now refer to as my "Mr. Smee Section," I am just getting to the point where I can bend over and pick things up, or get into and out of bed smoothly (almost there!) - things that I have been looking forward to for months.
We're getting there, one day at a time. Next week we even get to drive again...
- Wake up at 7:30. Eat for 12 minutes. Pass out.
- Wake up needing to burp. Sleep for 10 minutes.
- Wake up hungry; eat for 10 minutes. Pass out.
- Wake up needing to burp. Get clean diaper. Sleep for two hours.
- Wake up hungry. Eat for 10 minutes. Pass out.
- Wake up and burp. Get clean diaper. Eat for another 7 minutes.
- Pass out for twenty minutes and wake up hungry. Eat more. Pass out again.
- Wake up to burp and get clean diaper. Pass out for an hour and a half.
... that takes us into the afternoon, anyhow. You get the picture. I just use the app so when the husband comes home I pull it out and say, "Look what we did today!"
Meanwhile, since I'm recovering from what my children now refer to as my "Mr. Smee Section," I am just getting to the point where I can bend over and pick things up, or get into and out of bed smoothly (almost there!) - things that I have been looking forward to for months.
We're getting there, one day at a time. Next week we even get to drive again...
Thursday, May 7, 2015
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